The Continued Misadventures of Charlie Davis
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: I hated it when you were here, but only sometimes. I hate it all the time now you're not.


A/N warnings for character death and alcoholism. Bonus points if you can guess who's who. (Should be pretty obvious.) Told from Charlie's perspective.

...

You solved mysteries for a living.  
Your death was anything but. I think that's unfortunate.

You were better then any religion I have ever subscribed to.  
It's unfortunate that every religion needs a martyr.

You once said that it takes the human body seven years to be made of all new cells.  
I dread the day that I have a body you never touched.

I saw him once, sitting on your bed, trying to breathe in the last of you.  
I joined him.

I keep all your letters in a little box.  
They put you in a little box as well.

She locked your bedroom when she found out.  
He told me that he was having a strange feeling of deja vu.

You said once that I was family.  
I've always wondered if you were joking or not.

I hated it when you were here, but only sometimes.  
I hate it all the time now you're not.

Apparently there's seven stages of grief.  
I think he started at stage seven. Acceptance.

You said that death was just part of life.  
I didn't think you were talking about yours.

I suggested someone tell your daughter.  
I didn't even know her name.

You died with your blood smeared on my hands.  
I guess I can understand Lady Macbeth.

He tells me get drunk and forget.  
When I get drunk, the alcohol just reminds me of you.

Before you died, I told you to stop making messes for me to clean up.  
I didn't think you'd actually listen.

He drinks more then he used to.  
I should know. I clear the empty bottles from his desk.

She won't let me touch anything in your office.  
She said you'd hate that. I said you're dead.

You ruined everything.  
You fuck.

Sometimes, when she's not looking, I take the key, go into your room and touch the things on your dresser.  
I think if I annoy you enough, maybe you'll come home.

At the funeral, I think I asked how is he going to get out of the box?  
He made me stay with him for a week.

You broke her heart.  
Mine too.

People have often said that there are other fish in the sea.  
To those people, I say get bent. He was my sea.

She drinks your scotch.  
I guess she just wants to feel close to you.

He threw a bottle at the portrait your mother painted. It cut the canvas.  
I punched him in the face. She told me off, but it was worth it to see his nose bleed.

Everything fell to shit without you.  
It was pretty shit when you were here, but its worse now.

They played Hanging on Baby on the radio.  
I wish I could quit hanging on.

When he was on trial, I testified. I called you my friend.  
You'd just love that, wouldn't you?

He was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged. She told me that you'd hate that.  
She's right, but I felt satisfied all the same.

I didn't know anyone at the wake, so I just went to my room. He came as well.  
Drunk, naturally.

Everyone came to the funeral. Even the ones that hated you.  
I guess they hate you less now you're dead.

He said he wishes I would just be angry.  
I say 'Why? Then he'd still be dead, but I'd also be angry.'

Someone used your pad to prescribe themselves sleeping pills.  
I'd take credit but I'm not done with the bottle you actually gave me.

She put all your clothes into boxes.  
I stole a tie, and hid it in my sock drawer.

She called me up on the phone, drunk. She just wanted to talk.  
I'm glad I'm more companionship then corpses.

She gave herself a saline IV and we talked.  
About you, mostly.

Turns out you were all we had in common.  
That and a shared hatred of people in general.

He smells like a bar.  
It's only two thirty.

We watch game of champions and she tells me all the stories again.  
She's drunk, as well.

I've run out of sleeping pills.  
Which is unfortunate.

You died on fathers day.  
What sort of gift do I give now?

I asked him to tone down the drinking.  
He said I'll see.

I went to the hanging alone.  
I made a day of it.

He drank most of what was left of the whiskey and walked out.  
I get the feeling that he's not coming back.

I put flowers on your grave. They died.  
Like you.

I think about you less.  
I guess that's called moving on.

She leaves as well.  
At least she had the decency to leave a note.

On the streets, people say they're sorry you're gone.  
So am I.

He crashed his car, because of you.  
Well. You and the drinking.

It occurs to me that I don't know his daughters name either. She doesn't know mine, so I guess we're equal.  
Makes it a little awkward in bed, however.

Grief sex.  
Now there's something that I didn't have when you died.

And breakup sex.  
That too.

There's a fete in town. She enters a cake and wins first prize.  
I think I'm a pretty poor replacement for you at times.

Now he's superintendent, I'm the inspector.  
You've been gone a while, Doc.

Melbourne offers me a place back there.  
But I can't leave her here with the ghosts.

She's invited to a show. I wear your tie. She straightens it and says I look lovely.  
I bet she says that to everyone she's tried to replace you with.

I went though the chest in your bedroom. Sorry, I guess.  
I mean. Not really. But we can pretend, right?

Sometimes, I still pretend you're coming home and I think of all the things I would say to you.  
Number one, fuck you for ruining my life.

I tell people I can't drink whiskey because it makes me sick.  
Truth is it makes me sick because I think of you.

I go on dates sometimes.  
Maybe some men are just meant to be alone.

I worry about him sometimes.  
But more often I'm pissed off that he'd make his aunt worry.

On your birthday, the three of us that are left sit in your room and trade stories about you. I tell the story about when you threw me against a wall and yelled at me.  
In my defense. It's a good story.

She's writing a book about you, and everything you did. She's calling it ' Doctor Blake's adventures in Ballarat.'  
I didn't say it to her face but man. What a shit name.

I do try to drink.  
But then I'd still miss you. And be drunk drunk.

We had a picnic on your grave.  
Pass the sandwhiches, will you?

I was so desperate for her to stop drinking that I poured it all down the sink.  
Sorry.

I keep the same haircut, so that, if you ever come back,  
you will know who I am.

I read her manuscript.  
Hm.

I really, really miss you these days.  
But I know I'd just be annoyed if you were trying to console me.

Sometimes, she still makes two cups of tea.  
Sometimes, I drink two cups of tea.

He's a pretty shit super.  
But at least he doesn't drink.

I don't put flowers on your grave anymore, they'll just die. I've started putting folded paper ones there instead. They turn to mush, like you did, probably.

I got shot, you know. Apparently, I'll never be able to use that knee properly again.  
I asked for you when I went under.

I know blame changed nothing.  
Fuck you anyway.

He's a misogynist, racist, rude and sort of a dickhead.  
He takes care of me.

I never thought I'd see the day that I turned to him for comfort.  
I guess I just believed in you too much.

She was so busy thinking about you she didn't even notice I was gone till I came for my clothes.  
Which I expected, really.

She found my box of old letters to you and asked me to write the dedication in the front of the book.  
First time I've seen her in months.

I miss being a police man  
I miss being around you more.

I wrote her stupid dedication. In loving memory of Lucien Blake  
You fucker.

He said I should write my own book about you.  
I told him to go get bent.

I wrote this, however.

Because I loved you, you stupid fuck.

I memory of Lucien Blake.

I loved you.  
That wasn't enough, I suppose.


End file.
